Portrait of a Friend with a Smoke in his Hands
and making patterns on his big hands.
He has big hands and
they become a canvas in my head.
He touches my cheeks softly
and his hand covers more than half of my face.
He tells me I have pretty hands.
He tells me I have a pretty face.
He tells me
I’m so beautiful it hurts.
I know he is not trying to say it to be a cliche
He is saying it because he means it.
He does not get words,
he hardly gets my poems.
But he listens.
He is practical, logical, does math in his head.
He is doing some right now.
He knows I am thinking of words.
He does not know I am thinking about him,
making him into this poem.
He is counting the time till I am not lost to him anymore.
He lets me be.
He holds me when I don’t want to hold myself.
He tells me it will be okay.
I think, he really believes that.
I tell him not to smoke.
I tell him he’s an addict.
He holds his smoke in his right hand
and I tell him he’ll die early.
He says we are all dying
and don’t I find hands with a burning cigarette sexy?
I find them fascinating because
I often wonder about how these hands hold their lovers
but not the smokes in my friend’s hands.
I look at the pattern the smoke makes
It’s almost the same as the one I’m making on his hands.
And it hits me.
We’re all going to die.
He is afraid of failing.
He is afraid.
I think I am afraid of a lot of things too
I don’t really talk about those.
But he smokes.
And I write.
I hold his hands, he holds mine.
This is the only way we know
to be okay, to be alright.
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